


February

by Papillonae



Series: HWD Event: Her Kind (2018) [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Existential Angst, Gen, Inspired by Poetry, Russia Mention, Swearing, Talking To Dead People, Ukraine mention, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 09:30:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14281995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papillonae/pseuds/Papillonae
Summary: Character study. Belarus talks briefly with the ghost of a Soviet-era poet.Written for the Hetalia Writers Discord Female Characters Event, Day 3: Winter.





	February

_February. Get ink. Weep._  
_Write the heart out about it. Sing_  
_Another song of February_  
_While raucous slush burns black with spring._

\- Boris Pasternak, "February" (1912), Translated by A.Z. Foreman

* * *

The sun is starting to peel up from under the horizon. It casts a lazy pink and violet hue off the thick clouds as they roll eastward across the sky. 5:00 AM.

Belarus is just barely awake and bundled in her hand-me-down black parka. She’s standing on the balcony of her apartment away from home (Russia, however reluctantly, helped her move into Moscow only recently). She feels the February chill comb through the curtain of pale hair that falls just a little past her waist. The air feels like sharp needles in her nose, but in spite of it she still lights up outside. Her thumb trembles against the spark wheel, but it soon ignites and she lowers the tip of her cigarette toward the flame.

When she exhales smoke and warm vapors, she can feel how the warmth circulates and leaves her lungs.

“It is no good to be smoking,” a voice calls out from behind her. It is an older man’s voice. Belarus continues to watch the golden bead of the sun making its ascent.

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want,” she says bluntly, “and that’s rich, coming from _you_.”

The voice from behind her grumbles and coughs. His coughing is stifled and deep, almost like he is choking. There’s an eerie hush between his words. “I only warn you from personal experience, Nata.”

Belarus takes another drag. “Don’t you have anyone else to haunt right now?”

He says nothing further, but Belarus can still sense him staring at her back as she leans against the balcony railing, and blows more smoke out into the open air. The violet hues in the sky brighten to blue as the ashes from her cigarette are blown away in the wind.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Boris?” she asks finally, turning her head a ways toward the unexpected specter.

And the ghost of Boris Pasternak glides up beside her – he appears perpetually seventy years old before her, though his handsome features betray him by more than ten.

“Nata, you are always coming to Moscow,” he says. “It is _you_ who is visiting.” He does not look directly at Belarus. His eyes are also following the sun.

She presses herself a little more on the railing. “I thought your haunts were over in Peredelkino. Don’t you poets haunt your dachas, or your rotting, stinking remains in the ground anymore?”

Boris grimaces. “It is no wonder the other ghosts are disgusted by you.”

“Good. I didn’t ask for them. Or you, for that matter.”

The flickering ember of her cigarette is dangerously close to her fingers. Belarus snuffs the butt out on the railing before tossing it down into the street below. She breathes one last cloud of cigarette smoke, feels something in her spirit _lift_ , and suddenly she is more like herself. The sensation lasts for only a moment before the winter wind draws her arms inward. The first few flakes of snow touch down on the faux fur of her parka.

“This fucking weather,” she spits, casting her eyes to the wet black pavement, thick with slush from yesterday’s snow. “it won’t decide if it’s going to stick.”

“It will be an early spring this year, I think,” Boris muses aloud.

Belarus doesn’t respond at first. She listens as the city sleeps, the wind whipping her hair all about until her hair ribbon is blown off-kilter. There is something pressing at the edge of her mind, and she doesn’t quite know how to say it in front of the ghost of an old Soviet-era poet, but she tries anyway.

“Boris.” Her voice is soft, almost as if she is far away. “You know why I came here, don’t you.” It isn’t a question, but he nods in response.

“You are Belarus. For how much longer, you cannot say. You make the most of what time you do have because you are lonely.”

She shrugs further into her coat and shoots a deathly glare in his direction. “I hate the way you sound like you know me.”

Boris shrugs in response. “But you are lonely, are you not? You are always alone in Moscow during the winter. Russia comes and goes, but not so much during this time of year.”

She sighs. “I just feel like there’s _never_ enough time. Russia – _Vanya_ ,” she corrects herself, almost as if skipping his name might scald her tongue, “he’s strong. He doesn’t understand.”

Boris tries to offer what little comfort he can, placing his ghostly hand on her shoulder, but she can’t feel anything other than the usual chill of the morning air.

“I’m always asking myself, how much longer? How long until I’m lost to my people?” She laughs cruelly at herself. “ _My_ people. It’s always one hardship and another misfortune, and somehow we’re all Vanya’s in the end. Hell, I’m sure they’ve already forgotten where they come from.”

“If they have forgotten, then why are you still here?”

She squeezes her eyes shut in annoyance. “ _Fuck_ , if I knew that then I wouldn’t be going through all this shit in my head with _the ghost of fucking poets past_.”

Boris laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that dwindles to a wheeze before dissolving into a coughing fit. As she pinches the bridge of her nose, he takes a moment to collect himself.

“By any chance, have you read the last poem I ever wrote in life?”

She sighs. “No, I have not.”

“Then I shall paraphrase: the winter is almost over. Only one more month, Nata. Spring has a way of making time stand still, where in winter, it feels as though it is running out.”

And Belarus looks over at Boris Pasternak (or, at least, at the ghostly image of Boris Pasternak) and she understands. She still makes an annoyed face at him.

“You sound just like my sister.”

He bows. “Give my regards to Ukraine when you do see her. Russia is not your only family.”

Belarus turns away from him. “Go back to your crusty little gravesite, or whatever. I’m sure your fans are waiting.”

“Suit yourself.” And just as suddenly as he appeared before her, the ghost of Boris Pasternak vanishes into the thin morning air, almost like a dream. Or a terrible hallucination. Perhaps both.

The chill persists in the wind, and Belarus holds herself fast against it. February is almost over, and she can feel it in the air. The sky is now pale blue and cloudy, and the snowfall is mixed with a mist of rain.

She contemplates having another smoke, but thinks better of it, and heads inside to warm herself up. Winter in February grows short and cold, and insufferably lonesome. And so does she.


End file.
